Sticks & Scones

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Crap, I thought. Either I’m seeing a ghost or I’m losing my mind.

  CHAPTER 27

  I turned away from the castle and tried to get oriented. Close by, light from a solitary lamp shone through the pines. I sniffed a putrid smell. Coming from … what?

  I steadied myself, knelt carefully, and whisked soothing snow up my left arm. I belatedly recalled hungry mountain cougars, who did their hunting at night. Was I soon to become a feline hors d’oeuvre? I laughed aloud. Put that worry out of your head, dummy. The human hunter who stalked me was far more dangerous than any four-footed ones who might prowl through these woods.

  I staggered to my feet, almost overwhelmed by the smell of … garbage. Suddenly I realized I stood about half a dozen yards from the castle Dumpster, and the light beside it. I needed to get to help, I knew that. But all my thinking of the evening had not brought resolution to the questions that kept cropping up. When I was very young, my mother’s first act whenever she came home from shopping was to check the garbage. This was especially true if I looked guilty. Had I broken a glass? Burned a pan with popcorn? Eaten forbidden ice cream bars? All the evidence my mother ever needed was in the trash.

  I stumbled through the snow and threw open the top to the trash bin. Inside were my tied bags of trash from the labyrinth lunch. I leaned in, snatched them, and tossed them aside. Beneath those bags were two more black garbage bags, tied with yellow plastic ribbons. I ripped into the first one and was rewarded with household trash: aluminum platters and sauce-splattered folding boxes from Chinese carry-out. I leaned out of the bin and took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths.

  I heaved myself back up the side of the bin and savagely tore into the final bag. Paint cans. Brushes. And below them, a metal sign and what looked like metal attached to a bunch of wires. I grabbed both, pulled them up, and held them to the light.

  The sign said: PUMP ROOM! HIGH VOLTAGE! DO NOT ENTER! DANGER—ELECTRIC SHOCK! The other was an electric lock, complete with dangling wires. One side was blackened.

  “Andy!” I gasped. “You got yourself into a real mess, didn’t you, kid?”

  I dropped the lock and the chain back into the trash, and tried to figure out where to go. A small service road ran up to the Dumpster. It was slick with ice, but traveling along it would bring me back to the driveway. Think, I ordered myself.

  But I couldn’t think: my burned skin felt so hot I flung myself back into the snow. I felt dizzy, swimming against the movement of the earth.

  After a few moments, I felt a bit better. I blinked. The blur in my vision had cleared. So what did I need to do? Pretend you’re Dorothy and follow the Yellow Brick Road. Or in this case, the Iced Service Road. My own spontaneous, halfhearted chuckle surprised me. Humor in despair. I heaved myself to my feet and lurched forward. How far was I from the driveway? A quarter of a mile? Half a mile? Overhead, through the swaying branches, I could just make out the Big Dipper, pointing to the North Star, at the end of the Little Dipper. You can do this. Flee, I told myself.

  And I did, clutching my pained left arm. My stockinged feet had turned numb in the snow. I was going to make it, I told myself. Half a mile at the most.

  The pine boughs swayed and creaked. Who had done this to me? The answer remained tantalizingly elusive: someone in the Great Hall, someone who saw me read Eliot’s pamphlet, perhaps, someone who had followed me to the chapel and watched from afar as I’d scraped the new paint off the incriminating arc, the arc of electricity made where a young man had been electrocuted. Had it been Michaela? And if so, who had attacked her and rescued me? What had really happened back there?

  My mind spun: Flee, cook! We tried to warn you not to come! I’d looked up into a face, with blond hair.

  Andy had broken into a playroom, a playroom guarded by an electrified lock.

  I don’t hate him, Michaela had said. Quite the opposite …

  The electric-locked playroom had been cheaply furnished, and the toys had been old, but not covered with dust.

  The only dangerous place in the castle is the moat pump room, Sukie had said. But don’t worry, it’s all locked up. Was the room without a pump truly dangerous? Or was it locked to keep Our Lady Swiss-Clean out?

  Tonight, I’d seen the face of a child, a little girl, I was almost sure. I was almost sure I’d heard that girl attacking my attacker, up in Michaela’s apartment.

  There was a child—a living, nonghostly little girl—in Hyde Castle.

  The rumor of the baby drowning in the well had been just that: a rumor, started in a deliberate attempt to ward off the curious. And what about the screaming in Hyde Chapel? There hadn’t been any ghost of a dead wife, I realized. The real child had been crying; maybe she had been hiding in the chapel storeroom when the ill-fated wedding had started. Eliot could have put together his whole tape-and-player show to cover up for it.

  So Eliot had to know. He had to know something. He had to know why and how Andy had been electrocuted. Did he also know who had murdered Andy? Or had Eliot murdered Andy?

  I was nearing the driveway. I had to be. But I couldn’t hear cars from the state highway, only the moaning of the trees. Of course Eliot knew. Poor Andy had broken into the chapel—not the chapel where the stamps were hidden, but the castle chapel where the child was hidden, in its playroom … behind an electric lock and a sign saying that it was a pump room, to keep Sukie out.

  But whose child …?

  Stories in town had him living like a hermit in one room of the castle. For how long had Eliot lived like that? From the time he lost his teaching position on the East Coast to the time he met Sukie, almost nine years had passed. He’d had at least one girlfriend during that time: Viv Martini. That relationship hadn’t lasted long, according to Boyd.

  The family of the original fencing-master, meanwhile, had been given permission to live in a section of the castle rent-free. …

  Uh-huh. Almost nine years in a desolate, falling-down castle was a long time. Before his relationship with Viv, I was willing to bet, Eliot had found solace in the arms of his caretaker.

  I don’t hate Eliot … quite the opposite.

  I was also willing to bet Michaela had had a child she wouldn’t give up, but whose existence had to be kept secret, if Eliot was going to realize his dreams for the castle, with his reputation intact. The child, I wagered, occasionally wandered away from her playroom and made sudden appearances around the castle, perhaps even wearing a miniature suit of armor. Perhaps it was one of those appearances that had somehow provoked the nasty falling-out between Eliot and Michaela I’d witnessed in the courtyard….

  Not only that, but the news of Andy Balachek’s murder had brought the hard glare of publicity to the castle, a glare that might very well reveal a desperate secret that would undo all the owner’s ambitious plans.

  The child. I’d heard her breathing … that night I’d stood in the drum tower by our room. I’d glimpsed her once, in the shadows of the Great Hall, wearing her little suit of armor, undoubtedly lured by the fencing demonstration my own son was putting on. Even Tom had seen her, but had put it down to hallucinogenic drugs. This curious child, I was willing to wager, could get around the castle through the unrenovated areas, climb up into the towers, and scare us with unexpected appearances….

  Flee, cook! We tried to warn you!

  I stumbled down the service road, my thoughts spinning. After what seemed like an eternity, my ears made out another sound, a roaring noise … the creek. I thanked God. And when had I heard another roaring noise? Not long ago.

  We tried to warn you. …

  I lurched to the driveway, and saw the lights of a distant vehicle. Was it on the road? I tripped on the snow-covered ground and fell to my knees. A wave of nausea rolled over me.

  What had Boyd said? The bullet that hit your house was not from the gun that shot Andy, Tom, and “Morris Hart,” the computer thief…. The bullet was a warning. Somebody had tried to warn not Tom, but me. Away from what? From catering a
t Hyde Chapel. From catering at Hyde Castle. Why? Because a murder had been committed in the castle, and the body had been dumped not fifty feet from the doors of Hyde Chapel.

  Who lived in that upstairs apartment where the child’s voice had come from? Michaela. Michaela who loved children, Michaela who had her own child, I was almost sure. Michaela had tried to warn me away by shooting out our window. Scare her, she must have thought, close down the catering business for a while, anything to keep the mother of one of my favorite fencers away from this place where Andy died….

  I walked forward. I stayed in the shadows, knowing the person who’d perpetrated these crimes, who’d struck at me with a sword and poured boiling water onto my arm, was probably still searching for me.

  And who was that person? Who had access to both the castle and Hyde Chapel? Who knew about the Lauder-dales’ demand for sorbet for their son, and could ensure my return to the kitchen by tossing the first carton into the moat?

  As soon as I started to dig through the pamphlets, and started to unravel the lethal web spun through the castle and its history, somebody had gotten very scared.

  Who had access to Tom’s return time from New Jersey? The only way to get that was to have access to our family’s private doings … through Tom, through me … or through Arch.

  Whom did Arch visit every week? His father. And who had latched onto John Richard of late, convinced him, I was willing to wager, to fence some stamps and use his doctor-status and real estate greed to buy an expensive town house? No doubt she’d also figured she’d be able to follow our every move while planning her disposal of millions of dollars’ worth of stolen stamps.

  The roar of an approaching van interrupted my thoughts. My van. Tom! I waved at him with my good arm. He braked, jumped out, and insisted on helping me into the passenger seat. Relief and love for him overwhelmed me.

  “Miss G., look at you!” His face was wracked with worry. “You’re all wet! How did you ever—”

  “Listen, Tom,” I interrupted him, shivering like a madwoman. “You need to arrest Viv Martini.”

  CHAPTER 28

  My only question,” said Julian the next night, as he poured bubbling ginger ale into a punch bowl, “is what’s going to happen to Eliot and the castle?”

  We were in the Elk Park Prep gym, readying for the Valentine’s Day Dance. My left arm, which had received second-degree burns, was bandaged. I was sitting in a chair beside the table, unable to help much beyond dispensing advice, which I did freely.

  Tom was not there yet. I hoped he would come, believed he would come. After all, he’d been willing to accept my rapid explanation of what had transpired at the castle, before he’d found Viv Martini, barely conscious, on the floor beside the murder holes. He’d brought her to her feet, told her her rights, and cuffed her. When a parent had offered to drive me to the hospital emergency room, it had been my great pleasure to see a defeated Viv being guarded by Tom in my van, where they were waiting for police cars to show up.

  My mind turned back to Julian’s question: What was going to happen to Eliot? I didn’t know. He’d had to tell first the cops, and then Sukie, who had been oblivious to his hidden life, the truth: that Andy Balachek had climbed through the west-side garderobe into the study. That Balachek had received a nearly lethal charge of electricity trying to break into the castle’s former chapel. That the sudden loss of electricity had brought Michaela to the room, and that she had run to Eliot, working on jams in the kitchen, as was his wont in the wee hours. She had told him of Andy’s comatose state.

  Eliot, panicked and desperate, had called Viv Martini, the third partner in the stamp heist. Viv, Eliot claimed, had been blackmailing him, threatening to expose the secret of his bastard daughter, whom Viv had discovered when she and Eliot were having one of their trysts.

  All these years after their affair, Viv had decided to use Hyde Chapel as a hiding place for the stolen stamps, after Ray was arrested. She had not told Eliot what she was doing. But when Andy, who’d been getting restless to sell the stamps, had misinterpreted what Viv had finally told him about the stamps’ whereabouts, he’d been killed in his attempt to steal them. Everything had gone south, just at the very moment all Eliot’s dreams for a well-financed Elizabethan conference center seemed to be coming to fruition.

  Eliot and Michaela had told police—in exchange for immunity from charges of complicity—that Viv had driven Andy away from the castle. She had used her pickup truck—her other vehicle besides the Mercedes—the same truck she later loaned to Mo Hartfield. Eliot, meanwhile, hastily threw paint over the blood, the arc, and other random spots in the castle, hoping to hide the incriminating evidence of Andy’s near-fatal accident.

  The police were speculating that there was one thing Viv had been unsure of: What Andy had told Tom. She must have been certain that Andy had betrayed Ray Wolff to the police. She knew he’d tried to steal the stamps before she was ready to fence them. After he’d been electrocuted attempting the double-cross, she’d shot him and thrown his body in the creek. Then hastily, too hastily, she’d removed the stolen stamps from Hyde Chapel, leaving one behind. Unbeknownst to Eliot, Viv had sneaked back into the castle and hidden the remaining stolen stamps in the jam jar, again using her knowledge of his security system and his stillroom hobby to conceal the valuables in a way that would point away from her, if they were discovered. After that, the theory went, she’d sat in Cottonwood Park and waited to see if Tom had an inkling of what was going on. If he started to walk toward the chapel, instead of toward Andy’s body, she had to conclude he knew not only where the stamps were hidden, but her identity as well.

  And when Tom headed toward me—toward the chapel—she decided he had to die.

  And then there were all the other aspects of the story that we suspected, but could not prove: that at the instigation of her true boyfriend, Ray Wolff, Viv had wormed her way into the Jerk’s affections. Ray knew John Richard’s ex-wife was married to the cop who’d arrested him, because John Richard had told him so. John Richard, for once, had been the one who’d been used. As a source of data and a sex object, no less. If he wasn’t in a male-menopause support group, he certainly was going to need one now. Not to mention the help he was soon going to need if it could be proven he’d fenced stolen stamps. Plus there was that three-million-dollar, highly leveraged Beaver Creek town house to unload. Marla was going to be in heaven.

  After I was released from the hospital, the helpful parent had driven me back to the castle. The police were questioning Eliot in the Great Hall. I’d gone looking for Sukie. She was alone in the kitchen, not cleaning for once. She’d been crying. She said when she’d survived cancer and her first husband’s death, then found the historic letter that had led her to a new husband, she’d thought God was finally helping her get her life back. Now she wasn’t so sure. I’d hugged her and murmured that Eliot loved her and wanted to protect her. And so did God.

  Now, a commotion at the gym door made me look up. Julian and Arch, hobbling on the crutches required for his ankle sprain, had moved to greet Michaela and her daughter, a beautiful, seven-year-old child. I stood to greet them, too.

  The little girl had thick blond hair that wound into spiral curls, held back with twin gold barrettes. She wore a calf-length blue taffeta party dress that looked old-fashioned, a pair of white socks, and black patent leather Mary Janes.

  “I’m the cook,” I told her, as I extended my hand.

  She took my hand and curtsied. “I know.” Her voice was clear and lovely. She hesitated, unsure how to use social graces that she’d been taught. “My name is Mildred. Tonight is my debut into society.”

  I nodded, unable to find words. This little child had tripped Viv Martini with a sword after Viv, her sword broken, crashed into Michaela’s apartment through the living-room staircase. Viv had been looking for another weapon when she’d been tripped. Unfortunately, Viv had regained her balance, grabbed Michaela’s old electrified cauldron, and poured scalding w
ater down on me through the murder holes. But then this little girl had whacked Viv Martini unconscious with Eliot’s precious copy of Burkes Peerage. This darling little thing, whose delicate-featured face was so uncannily like that of Eliot Hyde, her father, had done all that. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Thank you, Goldy,” Michaela said, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry I yelled at you last night. I knew Viv had caused all the problems, and I was afraid she’d gone after Eliot. I wanted to find them and, and …” She stopped, aware of her daughter’s gaze.

  Mildred looked back at me, let go of my hand, and curtsied again. In the past twenty-four hours, I had learned more about why Michaela had kept Mildred’s existence secret all these years. Eliot had guiltily confessed the rest of the story: Michaela did love him; she also adored their child. Michaela was also reluctant to leave her own father, the old fencing-master, and the castle home she’d always known and loved. And Eliot had been afraid to kick out Michaela and their daughter: That would guarantee the publication of his paternity. So Eliot had promised to let Michaela and Mildred stay in the Kirovsky family home, and to pay for all the child’s expenses, until Michaela could take early retirement from Elk Park Prep next year. Then, she’d promised, she would take Mildred to a new home, when the conference center opened. Eliot would finance Michaela and Mildred doing all this, he had sworn to his caretaker, as long as no one—especially Sukie, whom he genuinely loved—knew that he was Mildred’s father. This was why Mildred’s playroom had boasted its heavy-duty electric lock.

  But secrets do have a way of getting out.

  Mildred curtsied again and allowed Michaela to lead her to the punch table.